Still
by nothingwillsuffice
Summary: Their relationship, fractured from the start with the death of his mother, is a horrid, hateful thing, a bloodline shrouded in disdain and disgust and deceit. But Zarkon is still his father, and Lotor is still his son. - or - Lotor remembers that one time Zarkon actually kind of treated him like his child and can't let it go.


It seemed to him that his father was always on the throne, so he looked for him there first.

Naturally (at least it seemed natural enough), Lotor was right. He was learning that he was right a lot.

Zarkon sat proudly on his throne in the dim lighting of the command ship's night cycle, his head declined in a condescending manner that Lotor would not understand until he was much older. His father was a living mountain to him at that age, unbelievably tall and firm, and as Lotor approached where he sat, he began to feel the mountainous weight of his father's thin-eyed stare on his chest. Just a decaphoeb or two older than a cub, Zarkon's eeriness had yet to dissolve for him.

Lotor stopped at an appropriate distance from his father with a slight tremble in his limbs. Despite Zarkon being his own father, Lotor saw his as a healthy fear; all Galra feared Zarkon, the emperor of their people, regardless of their station. Only his father's equals would not tremble under his menacing stare, and there had yet to be a single being he had seen in his relatively short life who could be given such a prestigious title.

From where he stood, Lotor looked up at his father. His hands rested at his sides tamely as he was taught, but he did not bow before his father like most would-- he was the crown prince and this was not a formal occasion, so he was exempted the formality. But Lotor could see the narrow, iridescent gaze of his father become thinner still as he stood silently and waited to be spoken to, and he wondered what he had done wrong.

Finally, after a dobash or two, Zarkon shifted in his seat to raise his shoulders even higher and lower his eyes even more. Lotor's sensitive ears cringed at the dull shriek of metal sliding against metal, but he didn't let his discomfort show on his face. The fear he had come to his father with was there, but nothing else.

When the emperor stopped moving, he spoke. It was soft in the night cycle, but it was also sharp and stern and very deep. His tenor reverberated through the metal of the floors to Lotor's shaky legs.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Lotor swallowed before responding. "I. . father, I came to. . ask you a question. May I?"

Zarkon tapped a large clawed finger against the armrest of his throne with contemplative silence. He eventually rumbled his assent to the young prince, his body language and tone never changing.

"You may."

"Father. . ." Lotor willed his stomach of drigbugs to settle and his voice to come out stronger than he actually felt. His words came out slowly nonetheless. "May I rest with you?"

"Why?" his father drawled almost poisonously. His violet stare became more intense if possible.

"I-- the cannons. My ears are still sensitive and they. . they're loud. They frighten me, father." Lotor could still hear them from where he stood, and he could hear them louder if he listened.

Lotor wasn't sure what to expect; he had never come to his father with a _fear_ before. He suspected that he would be punished for disturbing whatever important things his father must have been in the middle of doing when he came in, or simply dismissed for coming with such a ridiculous request, however. Zarkon was very strict and firm with him.

But he was still his father, and Lotor knew that there was a chance that he would be allowed to stay.

Zarkon's eyes bore into those of his son, which were wide and bright and fearful, and found a peculiar hope in them as well. He pressed his lips together and hummed sourly.

"Come here," he told his son.

Lotor obeyed, his small legs taking him from his position about six feet away from the throne to the sharp tips of his father's shoes. The giant before him shifted, lifting his arms from the armrests and reaching his hands down toward the prince. Knowing this was his father, his blood, Lotor could hardly believe that one day, he was supposed to be that big too.

Despite his harsh speech and harsher punishments, Zarkon's hands were careful-- almost gentle-- with his son. He lifted Lotor from the floor and onto his lap, his palms swallowing the boy's abdomen from the sheer difference in their sizes. For Zarkon, it was a rememinder of how pathetic his son was; that Lotor was a half breed with frail limbs and insufficient weight and a head that was a little too big for his young body. Oddly, these things strengthened his resolve to tuck the boy into the crook of his large arm and talk with him.

He would get rid of some of his weakness tonight.

"I was around your age when my senses heightened and I first heard the thunder of the cannons from my chambers," Zarkon narrated. It was an odd feeling, storytelling, but it was not wholly unpleasant. He continued in his more relaxed manner of speaking, deep and slow like the giant he was.

Lotor rested his head against his father's abdomen, his back against Zarkon's bicep. The emperor always wore his armor, but the seams underneath the arms, on the inside, allowed his cool warmth to touch the prince. Lotor snuggled into the comforting heat, his eyes droopy with sleepiness as he listened to his father speak. The intimidating boom of the cannons steadily fell away as Zarkon overpowered them.

"I was fearful, but I did not let it show. Instead, I _conquered_ that fear, as is the way of the Galra. But _you_. . ." Zarkon's eyes narrowed down at the boy in his arms again, his tone becoming firm and somewhat disgusted. "You are _weaker_ than I was--" he hissed, "a _half breed_. You cannot be helped, not even by yourself,"

Lotor shifted a little uncomfortably in Zarkon's arms, his nose wrinkling and his ears folding back in childish chagrin. And Zarkon, seeing this pitiful reaction from his son, decided that he was done with him. He sat back in his throne, tightened his hold on the boy ever-so-slightly. He sighed bitterly at the whelp's closed eyes.

"Sleep." Lotor heard his father command just before he drifted off. "I want you rid of this ridiculous phobia when you wake."

Lotor fell into a blissful sleep to the rumble of Zarkon's speech, curled into himself, his father's powerful arm protecting him from the universe outside.

When Lotor woke up, the crook of his father's arm was gone and he was back in his own chambers. Thin violet lights dully illuminated the space above his head in the dark, giving him sight of the hard metal frame holding him up. He was still sleepy. But not too sleepy to feel bitterness creep up his throat.

The thick covers were cozy, but they could not replace his father's great limb.

The ship's cannons still roared horrendously loud in the distance.

Lotor's ears twitched and he quivered. He felt the growl of the cannons in the ship, travelling into his legs and back through the metal of the floor and the metal of his bed. But he didn't seek out his father again or even cower beneath the blankets as he had the first night of his distress; instead, he simply stayed where he was, dimmed the purple lights above his head to steep himself within the dark. His weakness would not be found here, like this; he would silently fight his fears out of sight and overcome them in time, as was the way of the Galra. He would not be seen weak; Lotor vowed to strengthen himself by the morning cycle, to possess the resolve to be his own comfort.

But it was still his father's arms-- their great power and cool warmth-- and the weight of Zarkon's words that gave Lotor his victory that night.


End file.
